


Vignette's - Written Between Dusk and Dawn

by NorthernRose



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Do I have to tag that anything I write will likely not be pro Dany?, Domestic Violence, F/M, I have commitment issues to life and my WIPs rn, I've been writting these instead of sleeping, Its all Jonsa, One Shot, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, So you're getting this nonsense instead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23494585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernRose/pseuds/NorthernRose
Summary: Short vignettes and snippets from various worlds/times/universes - I know I have the odd WIP open, but I am about to be transferred to start working at NHS Nightingale and am super busy trying to kick COVID-19's posterior with all my wonderful colleagues! Ka-pow!I will update tags as we go along.Chapter titles are heavily influenced from music because every angsty/sexy song is obviously about Jon and Sansa right?
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 19
Kudos: 45





	1. Midnight

**Midnight.**

He loves her eyes. Always has.

Trouble is, so does the rest of the world. He’s listened and nodded along to their tall-tales about it enough.

Jon could wax poetic about her best features, like her hair, flame kissed, living and breathing, or her skin, polished and unyielding, like those posh porcelain tiles her mother has in her kitchen, but as soft as the oils she says she doesn’t use in her bath, or her laugh, yes, her laugh is perfection.

But often, it comes back to her eyes. He’s heard talk of them all the years he’s known them beneath her auburn lashes. As blue as the waters on the English Riviera in June, deep as the rocky coves he explored as a boy, bright and shining like the jewel she is. He cannot bring himself to deny those things, he’s thought them himself over the years, longer than he cares to admit when she was just a friend of a friend or a sibling or whatever.

Blue. Azure. Cerulean. Call them what you like. Jon knows her eyes are all of that and more, but he prefers _midnight_.

He knows it sounds odd. That’s why he’s only ever said it to her, the first time he had ever seen her as he does now. He’d whispered it in her ear then, all those months ago.

When she’s laid out on his pillow underneath him, on crisp white sheets, like a fresh tin of paint, her hair blazes darker in the waning light of his flat, her skin looks as light and creamy as it always does, but more fragile perhaps than in the daylight. Maybe its because she’s naked, pressed against him, linen and cotton soft, but she seems to lose that steeliness that Sansa Stark has cultivated so carefully in recent years. She leaves it at the front door for him. Its all for him.

Midnight.

That’s how her eyes shine now, pupils blown black as pitch, swallowing the blue so you cannot tell where one colour ends and the other begins, as she sighs softly beneath him. He’s the only one that gets to see her like this, his twilight girl, his secret girl, as the moon begins to dip in the sky. It won’t be like this forever, him and her running around like clandestine lovers, he’ll scream it from the roof tops one day, when she lets him, when she’s ready, but he’ll take this version of her for now in the dim of his room. Yes, midnight is his favourite colour now, she knows it too.

He stills inside her and he feels her fingers flex low on his back, wordlessly voicing her frustration enough to leave her mark. It drives her crazy when Jon teases her like this, but then she’s been driving him crazy for years now and all is fair game this late into the night, with her teeth digging into her lip, eyes pinched shut as she tries to grip him tighter with her thighs.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers, she likes that, of that he’s sure, the endearments, the praise, the softness. Its only what she deserves after all, “look at me,” he murmurs, “let me see you.”

The lids of her eyes flutter open, blinking lazily at him, and she gazes up at him with the look of a women well worshipped, which he endeavours to ensure when she’s in his bed like this. She offers him one of her looks, eyes glowing like a lake under a new moon, blue-black, shining like the coat of a magpie’s wing. Midnight.

“There she is,” he speaks to the night, there is no one else to hear them, “that’s better, isn’t it?”

It’s silent save for her breathing, delicate just like much of her is, but her brow furrows as she whimpers and tries to move underneath him.

“Isn’t it?” he asks again, offering a kiss to her lips, swollen and berry red at his doing, “isn’t it better for me to see you?”

“Jon, please,” she replies, and he’s never heard a moan so desperate and so quiet at the same time. Just for him.

“Ok, it’s ok sweetheart,” he speaks against her lips. They are so close, touching from toe to forehead, pressed against one another like they share lungs and hearts and limbs, and they do in truth, but it’s her eyes he _wants, needs, must_ have before night bleeds to dawn.

“It’s ok,” he repeats, and who is he to deny her, when she offers him such looks, like a can of oil spilled off the Amalfi Coast. Blue-Black. Midnight. He couldn’t refuse her a thing, so he’ll give her what she wants, _anything, everything,_ and he moves once more.


	2. Love, I gave you everything.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Season 8 - Canon Divergence.   
> Godswood, parentage reveal. 
> 
> Jon's desires become clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'Hollow Crown' - by Isaac Gracie.

**Love, I gave you everything.**

They’ve _both_ been playing the game it seems. She taught Jon well. Finally. Thankfully. Just as Petyr taught her, like Cersei had too, and all the rest with them. Sansa was an apt pupil in the end. Jon’s not as good, her sweet, honourable and loyal brother – no, _cousin_.

Cousin. Lovely, its such a lovely word.

The term tastes so sweet on her lips, vowels and consonants dripping from her tongue as heavy and rich as summer wine. It seems, after everything, every barbed word and heated exchange, _hmm_ , yes, they are good at those, aren’t they? After it all, it seems he had finally listened.

He had had listened better than she ever believed he could. Maybe she didn’t have enough faith in him after all.

Every veiled and cursed exchange between them now makes her thrum with excitement, with _want_. Now she can truly see such exchanges for what they truly are. Desire.

A moons turn previously, when he had brought _that_ women here, that prideful tyrant in a silver queen’s clothing, she should have known better. She hadn’t. Sansa had let that one emotion cloud her judgement. _Love_.

Love had made her jealous, angry and argumentative. It had dripped from her every pour, ran through her very core like the heated springs that flushed through the walls of Winterfell. Every occasion where she had seen her love simper and preen to the silver-woman she had ached with it.

Petyr would be so disappointed in her.

Cersei had warned her too. _Love no one, but your children_. But she doesn’t have any children. Not now at least, maybe not ever, so who should she love, accept the one person she shouldn’t?

She can live with this mistake though. She can live with many things, like the wrongs that have been done to her body and her mind, the damage to her home and her winter stores at the hand of the dead, and dragons and armies that are no longer her concern, _may they turn to dust in the South she forsook so long ago_.

She can certainly live with the reality that Jon is, in fact, her _cousin_.

Cousin. Yes. The word thrums in her veins. Such a word tastes as sweet as lemon cakes.

As he stands before her in the Godwood, and Bran tells them the tale their father so carefully shielded from them for all those years, she can see Jon’s truth as plain as day, as clear and as fresh on the snows they stand upon, amongst the red leaves of the Heart Tree, before the Gods of Old and their weeping faces.

It seems he has hidden his desires as carefully as she had.

He gives himself up quite easily in the end, after all these careful weeks he has spent cultivating his web of tales.

 _Dany_.

 _She’s not her father_.

 _She’ll be a good queen_.

All lies from the lips of the man Sansa loves.

Such lovely, noble and princely lips.

She hears them now like the poison they are. His endearments taste like ash on her tongue, no doubt the ash his _queen’s_ beasts will turn Westeros to. Lies, lies, _lies_. Perhaps she is the only person who can stand in the way of the _Unburnt_ , the _Breaker of Chains_ , maybe she is the only one with the weapons and ability to ensure the silver-child destroys herself before the world. All of the Dragon’s Queen’s names sound rather fanciful compared to the Lady of Winterfell, but that’s that will be needed in the end to ensure the North is free at the end of it all, and Jon with it.

She doesn’t need to be a queen, not when the perfect candidate for King stands before them. She’ll be his lady, that’s enough. Sansa’s been a rather simpler girl since she saw her fathers head delivered of his shoulders.

Still, the man who has proclaimed Daenerys Targaryen as their saviour is still Sansa’s _heart_ , he is still her _love_ , no matter how much she has tried to fight the ache in her chest since they embraced in the dank and dreary courtyard at Castle Black.

She’s loved him always, of course, even with disdain, when she called him nothing but half-brother as a girl, or as her brother and supporter, who beat Ramsey to a pulp before her very eyes, for _her_. But this is different now.

Its not until now that she sees how much she has truly done for him. She had Petyr’s throat slit in her father’s hall because her one-time tutor had discovered her hearts desires. She had known from the moment Littlefinger had whispered in her ear how beautiful the Targaryen girl was that Petyr knew how she lusted for her own once-brother, so it had been quite simple, her tormentor had needed to die. She had even welcomed the silver queen in to her mothers castle, fed her their food, given shelter to her army of delinquents, all because Jon had bid her to do so, even though it burned her, heart and soul, to do such a thing.

In all honesty, she would throw herself from the Broken Tower if Jon bid her too.

Now, she seems her own truth mirrored back in his stony and bottomless eyes. For when Bran discloses that everything they once thought was a lie, that his life is not as it was, well, Sansa knows such a thing should shatter him, his honour, his loyalty, but it doesn’t.

As the tale is wove before them, he doesn’t look to Arya as she stands trembling in the Godswood with the hilt of her Needle clutched in her small hand, likes it holds her to the ground, the girl he had always named _little sister_ , nor Bran, his brother, not even to the Weirwood or the gnarled roots and stones where Ned Stark once sat in contemplation.

He looks to Sansa.

No. He doesn’t look. It’s too simple a word, too sweet, too normal. He blazes. He grey eyes burn like the smoking pyres of their dead that smoulder in front of Winterfell still. It burns her, like the Targaryen he is. That’s _his_ truth. It’s the thing that will save them. It’s the thing that will give her _him_ and she’s grateful for it. She’ll play his game alongside her own, because she can see it in her eyes, every sweet word, dripping like honey from his mouth to that silver woman that sits in her Keep, every lie, its been for _them_ , for the Starks, for the North, for Winterfell… _for her_.

He loves her, so she will do whatever it takes to give him everything.


	3. you taste like honey and you smell like gin.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We can’t keep doing this.”
> 
> He says the words with his lips at her neck, that in itself should be enough to realise how much heart he lacks when he speaks them. Such blatant lies. It appears, he left his conviction along with her dress somewhere between the front door and the settee.

“We can’t keep doing this.”

He says the words with his lips at her neck, that in itself should be enough to realise how much heart he lacks when he speaks them. Such blatant lies. It appears, he left his conviction along with her dress somewhere between the front door and the settee.

She hums a laugh, half sigh and throaty giggle that makes his desperate for her and he feels the vibration against hips lips. She’s always right, she hasn’t been wrong since the day she was born.

“Sansa.”

“Jon,” she breathes, so quiet he can barely hear it, butterfly-light, delicate, everything about her is gentle, tipping her head back as she sits straddled across his lap, her long hair draped across his jeans, and despite the barrier, it burns as red as her hair, “You always say that, yet here we are…”

Yes. Here they are. Dress crumpled and forgotten by the door, he’d taken it off himself as soon as they barrelled their way in, gripping hands and nipping teeth, her underwear is somewhere on the coffee table, never to be seen again, and there is something deliciously sinful about having a naked Sansa Stark in his lap whilst he remains completely clothed, the stuff of his actual dreams come true, but the whole thing is _deliciously sinful_ , and isn’t that the problem.

He takes a leaf out of her book and hums in response, before biting down on the pale expanse of skin between her neck and shoulder, just hard enough to leave a mark, before running his nose across his efforts to breathe her in.

“You brute,” she moans, in that haughty and highly strung voice of her that makes him want to haul her into his arms and take her against the wall, just as he had done a time or two before, “I know what you’re doing…” she adds, grinding her nakedness against his clothed and throbbing hardness, “mark me all you like… but its better this way,” she sighs.

“Sansa,” he knows he’s whining now, but she’s trying to destroy him, he knows it, its likely he will internally combust at any moment, “who exactly is this better for?”

He pinches his hands into her hips, helping her to move against him because they both need _something_ , whilst he noses at her nipples, denying her his lips on them.

“Us,” she breathes into the faint light of his flat, “both of us. It’s more exciting this way. Isn’t it? Secret nights like this, just us, you, me, no one else matters when we are like this,” she exhales as she continues to grind against him.

Secret nights. Secret days too from time to time. His place, hers, his office once. It’s only been a month or two, but every time leads him to just wanting _more_.

She’s addictive, the sweetest fix, and one more time only leads to the next.

“It is,” he groans, because he cannot deny that. Drinks in the pub with everyone, his ex in the corner with her unsubtle glares despite moving on herself, her brother next to him at their table as her foot creeps further and further up his leg. Five gin and tonics later and he ‘offers to walk her home’, with a pat on the back and a _thank you_ from Robb, but they always skip her flat and end up right where they are now. It is exciting.

“We are both only recently single, and I don’t want the nosiness of my ridiculous family and our friends…” she halts her movements, delectable as they are, and looks down at him, toying with her own lip with her teeth as her hands skate across the buttons on his shirt, “for once, Jon, hmm… for once I want something that is just for me.”

He kisses her then, hard and long and dripping with the complexity of the knowledge that they are both balancing on the edge of awareness, this isn’t just _fun_ any longer, it is so much more. because he will give her what she wants for a little while yet, he’ll give her as much excitement and play their little games till she’s boneless from it, till she’ll never want another again. He’d do anything to make her happy, to make her his, indefinitely.

She whimpers into his mouth as he toys with her nipples lazily and he feels the frustrated press of her thighs against his jeans.

“Jon, please.”

He laughs dryly, pinching her nipple harder.

“What do you want, Sansa?”

“You…” she stutters, “your mouth, your hands, all of you…”

He hums again, ghosting his had down the valley and dips of her ribs, close, so close to where she aches for them.

“Hmm, you know I love my hands and mouth on you, your smell, hmm… your taste,” he tells her, voice low and husky and commanding in the way that he knows she wants.

“You do?” she says coyly.

“You know I do, like honey, like gin,” he teases, finally taking her nipple in his mouth and sucking it between his lips.

“Good things, then,” she manages to get out as she moans, grappling furiously for his belt.

“Aye darling, good things, but sometimes you can have too much of a good thing…” he whispers against her breasts, as she writhes against his, naked and nymph-like and far too good for him.

“Jon, can you have too much of me, do you think?” She tips her head back up so she can look down at him, starring at him sweetly, and a little unsure, and this is how he adores her, bare, stripped back, of clothes and her carefully constructed demeanour. Of everything.

“Of you darling? Never.”


	4. You only ever make me feel good.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he had answered the door not twenty minutes ago, she had glided inside in one of her damnable dresses, face bleeding and eye already swelling like she didn’t have a care in the world. She’s walked straight past him, tossing a comment over her shoulder about having an appointment with Dr Snow before helping herself to one of his old rugby tops in his bedroom.  
> -  
> Midnight meetings between not-so friends, broken hearts and broken skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags updated for trigger: domestic violence.

**You only ever make me feel good.**

He’s standing in front of her as she sits up on the island in his little kitchen on an commonly dark and grey night, Jon nestled between her legs. Close, but not too close. Normally, such closeness would be torment for him for all kinds of different reasons, but no matter how much he _wants_ her, there is nothing sexy about him standing between her legs as he wipes antiseptic across her cut cheek.

Even now she’s beautiful, and he hates himself a little for thinking it when she appeared at his door in such a state.

When he had answered the door not twenty minutes ago, she had glided inside in one of her damnable dresses, face bleeding and eye already swelling like she didn’t have a care in the world. She’s walked straight past him, tossing a comment over her shoulder about having _an appointment with Dr Snow_ before helping herself to one of his old rugby tops in his bedroom.

Even in the oversized London Wasps shirt she was glorious.

He hasn’t offered much in the way of conversation. He had silently flipped the kettle on whilst she had taken her pew on the oak worktop. He had brought his bag full of medical supplies out from the coat cupboard, in fact Ned and Cat had gifted it to him when he first rose to the ranks of Junior Doctor. The leather is even embossed with his initials. Its one of his most favourite possessions he owns. He imagines Robb’s parents hadn’t imagined he would need to use it to treat their precious daughter in the dead of night in his flat.

He notices Sansa appraising the bag with a fond smile on her lips before she digs inside and pilfers out his stethoscope and draping it around her neck like one of the pretty pendants her mother wears. She grins as he shakes his head at her.

Her façade is careful and well-constructed.

She’s humming as he holds her chin between his fingers and scowls as he appraises her face. Professionally, its all pretty superficial. Personally, its agony to look at her like this.

She continues to hum her little tune as he looks her over and takes to dabbing antiseptic to the cut on her cheek which is the worst of it, he supposes there isn’t a lot of barrier between her skin and such perfect bone structure. The tune she has taken up, Rule Britannia, he thinks, has taken an almost jovial turn, and its all odd, so odd. He’s waiting for the crash to be honest.

He’ll be waiting a while though. Sansa Stark is the strongest person he knows, and she will be forever determined to never crumble for any man.

She winces at the sting in her cheek when he finally breaks, long before she would he imagines.

“So… are we going to talk about it?”

She sighs.

“You did well, you lasted twenty-three minutes, brava darling,” she even bats her lashes a little.

“That’s not an answer,” he replies, resting his hands either side of her on the worktop.

“No, it isn’t,” she whispers, but at least she’s talking now, it isn’t the answer he wanted but Sansa would never give up the ghost so easy, “but talking isn’t what I wanted,” she shrugs unapologetically.

“Then why did you come here?” he asked. He doesn’t say it with any malice or accusation, he is just genuinely curious.

“I thought it would be obvious,” she laughs, gesturing to her face, “I needed your healing hands, Dr Snow.”

“Very funny,” he stills the hand she’s waving around so enthusiastically and settled it down on his own shoulder, “keep still, and that’s a lie, any idiot could patch this up, it doesn’t take a medical degree,” he grumbles.

“Well, maybe it was your reassuring bedside manner I was after,” she says sarcastically, but the way she brushes her fingers backwards and forwards against his shoulders is achingly sweet.

Its so typical of Sansa Stark that in this moment she is trying to comfort him.

He raises an eyebrow at her expectantly as he continues to assess the cut on her cheek as the underneath of her eye swells.

She huffs before answering.

“Robb would have been straight out of the door seeking bloody murder, and I cannot have that on my conscience,” Jon only nods, she’s absolutely right, bloody Robb Stark and his bloody hero complex, “and Arya isn’t much better,” she continues, “I don’t know Jon, I just didn’t need the loudness of them, however well meant it is, the lecture…”

“Lecture?”

He prompts her, _softly, softly, catchy monkey,_ as Ned Stark would say, like coaxing a foal into a new pasture.

“Oh, you know… another fuck up on my part, another failed relationship because of my shitty taste in men…”

“There’s your problem Sans,” and how easy that internal little nickname for her spills from his tongue.

“What do you mean?” Her brows pull together in confusion before she winces at the pain the action causes.

“Whatever this was, or is,” he says, tracing his knuckle gently, whisper-soft, against her darkening cheek, “has nothing to do with the relationship choices you make, or the men you are attracted to, but everything to do them, whatever dickhead did this to you…”

He knows who did it to her. He’d read the prick the first time he ever met him, in the shitty pub in South London three months ago, he’d seen the way he’d watched her, hungry, glinting and wild eyes. He’d known men like that all his life.

“You know who it was…” she whispers, looking down shyly. He nods, she knows she can’t see him, but she can feel him nod so closely to her, closer than they were ten minutes ago.

“You’ll need a few steri-strips,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say to fill the quiet the eats away between them.

“It had only been a few months, just a fling really,” she shrugs, “I was ending it with him…”

“Sans, you don’t owe me an explanation,” he sighs.

“I know I don’t Dr Snow, but stop interrupting me,” she says in the prim way that makes his knees weak, just like it always has.

He laughs softly at her, settling his hands back on either side of her hips and dipping his head for her to continue.

“I was ending it with him…” she continues, “he was making me uncomfortable… and well it just wasn’t worth it,” she looks up at him from under her lashes, “he’d never been…” she swallows thickly, “… physical before,” she pauses, fiddling with the overhanging cuffs of his rugby shirt she dons so well, “he didn’t really take it well, me ending it, I mean, this was a parting gift I guess,” she gestures back up to her face, “and after everything that happened with Joffrey, well, I won’t ever let myself be treated like that again,” she tries to say it bravely, but he hears the little quiver in her voice all the same.

“Sans,” he sighs, and he closes his eyes against the pain he sees in hers, against the anger he feels coursing through him at the audacity of this fucking prick who could bring himself to lay a hand on her.

He feels her gently pull him closer as she wraps her arms around his neck, clutching him closer, and he follows, because honestly, he would follow her anywhere, and he wraps his arms around her neck.

He doesn’t tell her that it will all be ok. He doesn’t threaten to kill this bloke and make it as painful as possible. He doesn’t pick up the phone and call Robb or her father or anyone else. He doesn’t tell her that he is sorry, that he would never treat her like that. He knows Sansa, they’ve been friends all these years after all, and he knows she doesn’t need to hear any of that right now. So, he just holds her, he just holds her a little closer as she shivers in his arms, as she buries her face into his neck and into his shoulder.

Maybe one day she’ll need more than that. Maybe not.

She sniffs into his shoulder.

“I came here because I knew you wouldn’t make me feel bad, Jon. You only ever make me feel good,” she whispers, drawing back to look at him.

He gently touches her hair, pulling a strand to settle back behind her ear. He accepts her soft smile, as she blinks her big, watery blue eyes up at him, he accepts the gentle circles she draws with her thumb at the nape of his neck, he even accepts the feather light kiss she places to the corner of his mouth, because, even after all these years, she only makes him feel good too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep well and happy, dear hearts.


End file.
